Page 50 of And Then There Was You

Forty-Four Zach

Without Merryn, my days morph into one another, time passing like sand through my fingers.

I do my Downalong Bakery rounds in the morning, then head to Pengelly’s.

My shifts cover most days now, extra hours to meet the high season demand.

Keeping busy is what motivates me, I tell myself, but I know that’s a smokescreen.

I’m avoiding thoughts of Merryn by throwing myself into work.

Just like I threw myself into competitions when I lost Mum.

My life might have changed, but my default coping mechanisms haven’t.

Fight for her . . . And do it soon . . .

Aggie’s advice has buzzed around my head like a summer wasp since I went to see her. I want to fight for Merryn. I want her to know I love her. But have I left it too long to return?

‘Zach.’

Hen is staring at me when I bump back from my thoughts. We’re unloading newly washed glasses from the dishwasher, stowing them on the shelves beneath the bar. I realise I’ve had a pint glass in my hand for a while, drips of warm water running down my arm.

‘Sorry,’ I rush, quickly shelving the glass.

‘Don’t sweat it,’ she returns, nudging my arm. ‘But next time I want help emptying the dishwasher I’ll avoid asking you, okay?’

‘Might be wise.’

She glances over her shoulder. ‘Luke’s off out in a sec. Can we chat when he goes?’

‘Yeah, sure.’ There’s something about my work colleague’s tone that sounds off.

Of all the Pengelly’s team, Hen is the one I joke around with the most. She’s ace, a fine art student on her summer break from Plymouth Uni.

Her humour is something I rely on to keep us going through the busy shifts, but her usual smile is starkly absent now.

Half an hour later, Luke leaves. He’s been bullish all afternoon and it’s a relief to be away from it, if only for a while. I seek out Hen, who has been unpacking crates of mixers in the stockroom out back.

‘What’s going on?’ I ask.

She folds her arms across her apron as if a chill has entered the space. ‘I think we have a problem. With Luke.’

‘Clichés getting too much again?’ I joke.

She doesn’t smile. ‘I think he’s doing something dodgy.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Have you noticed he always replaces bottles on the optics?’

I can’t say I have. But then shifts at Pengelly’s have been so full-on recently I’ve barely been able to think, let alone notice anyone else.

‘Well, he does,’ Hen continues, not waiting for my reply. ‘And the thing is, I’m not convinced he’s changing them.’

‘But I’ve seen the spirits running out,’ I counter. ‘The Glenfiddich twelve-year-old emptied in less than a week.’

‘The contents emptied.’ I can’t work out her tone, or what she’s trying to say.

‘And the bottle.’

‘ Not the bottle,’ she corrects. ‘I noticed the label had a scratch across the bottom before and after Luke changed it. If it was a new one, why would it be in exactly the same place?’

‘Hen, you’re not making any sense.’

‘Okay, look.’ Exasperated, she grabs my sleeve, dragging me through to the restaurant and behind the bar. She jabs a sunset-yellow-painted fingernail at the bottle in question. Sure enough, there’s a deep, horizontal scratch across the bottom third of the label.

‘Are you sure it was there before?’

‘Positive. It’s the kind of random thing I notice. Anyway, I did an experiment. The vodka was almost finished, so I put a tiny dot of nail varnish on the back of it. Luke changed it this morning – and look.’

We move along to the Smirnoff optic and Hen twists the bottle. Sure enough, a small dot of yellow varnish is on the side.

‘So he’s refilling the optic bottles?’

‘Exactly. And get this: there’s a red van that visits once a week. Luke always goes to collect the order. Like, he’s really protective over it.’

‘Our regular supplier’s vans are blue,’ I say, the conundrum becoming clear. ‘You think he’s bringing in dodgy spirits?’

Hen nods. ‘Put it like this: he doesn’t want anyone else handling the bottles or the red van deliveries, but he’s happy to let us do everything else. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?’

‘Have any customers questioned the taste of their drinks?’

‘Most of them are three sheets to the wind by the time their food arrives,’ Hen replies. ‘But one bloke last week sent his single malt back. He said the water we put in it was off, but what if it was the whisky?’

The question becomes an itch for the rest of my shift. Luke returns and I watch him, striding around the restaurant as the perfect host, all warm compliments and loud welcomes. A few times he gravitates towards the bar, and I see him squinting at the line of optics. But that could mean anything.

All the same, the idea that he might not be what I thought refuses to leave me. I’ve had a sense of it before, in his overblown confidence and attitude towards some of the team, but this seems to confirm it.

I get home just after midnight, the evening shift extended to accommodate a large party of late diners. I’m exhausted, which suits me fine. Collapsing in my bed, I have no time or energy to think of Merryn before I succumb to deep, dreamless sleep.

*

When I wake next morning, I discover I’ve missed a text.

After an extended shift at Downalong Bakery followed by an early evening shift at Pengelly’s, I was barely able to get back to the studio and eat something before I crashed out.

I’d just wanted to keep busy, to have a hope of escaping the endless cycle of thoughts about Merryn and what might have been.

But the text has dragged me right back to it.

Hi Zach, I have news.

Call me as soon as you get this.

Zan x

My first two attempts to call Zanna go straight to voicemail. The third informs me the user is busy. I pace the studio, thankful at least that I don’t have work today. What does ‘news’ mean? Has Zanna found him? Or has she discovered something Merryn won’t want to know?

Finally, just after nine a.m., my call connects.

‘Hi, Zach, sorry, it’s been manic here since seven.’

‘What’s the news?’

I will the best news to answer my question – that he’s been found alive and well, that he wants to see Merryn.

I can’t be with her as I long to be, but I still hope for the best. She’s spent most of her life without the one person she wanted to be part of it.

That should be rectified. How that relates to me is irrelevant.

‘I’ve found Grant Henderson.’

I punch the air, checking myself when I realise what I’ve done. At least I’m alone in the studio this morning and won’t have to explain my reaction to anyone else.

‘Awesome! Where?’

‘In Carbis Bay.’

‘Wow, that’s . . . close.’

‘I know. And to think he’s been at a bar there all this time we’ve been searching. It’s pretty amazing.’

‘Which bar in Carbis?’

‘Mariner’s. Do you know it?’

I smile against my phone. Do I know Mariner’s?

It was only my illegal drinking venue of choice with the surf crowd when I was sixteen.

I officially had three eighteenth birthday parties in the beachfront establishment, with only the last one being genuine.

How the landlord never worked it out is a mystery.

Was Grant Henderson working there back then?

I dismiss the thought. Hardly anyone in the bars and pubs around here works in the same place for years.

Bar staff are like the shifting sands on Porthmeor and Porthminster beaches: ever moving, never settling.

I’ve done it myself over the years, the ease of finding bar jobs meaning I could pick up a bit of work anywhere we went.

‘Does Merryn know?’

‘I spoke to her last night. I’m heading over to pick her up now and we’re going over to Mariner’s. Do you want to come?’

My heart sinks like a stone. ‘It’s for Merryn to do, I think.’

‘Yeah, but you made it happen, Zach.’

She doesn’t know. About the fight, about Merryn asking me to leave. About how I’ve stayed away because I couldn’t bear it if she threw me out again.

‘All the same, this is Merryn’s journey to complete.’ Do I sound magnanimous? Or scared? ‘But could you keep me posted?’

‘Will do. This is a good thing, Zach. You started a beautiful thing for Merryn – and look what we’ve achieved!’

I don’t feel I’ve achieved anything, other than causing pain to Merryn and damaging the piano that brought us together.

I miss her, with every breath, with every day that goes by without me seeing her.

But it’s a necessary separation. I let my pride and competitiveness take over when Seth was throwing his weight around.

I don’t want to think about how quickly I lost sight of what mattered.

But she’s found Grant now – or will do, when Zanna drives her over to the bar. That’s one thing I can be proud of. What happens next for them is none of my business.

With nothing to distract me at home, I go out into St Ives.

Having two jobs is a blessing I won’t take for granted, but it’s a lot.

I’ve begun to appreciate days off like today in a way I never did before.

I’ll grab some breakfast and then head out of town to join the cliff path.

A walk will do me good, I think. Blow the conflicting thoughts from my head and put some distance between me and the town.

Merryn is getting what she most wanted. I have to be happy for her, even if I wish we were travelling to Carbis Bay together. Walking in the opposite direction is the safest thing for me to do.

Matt grins at me when we meet at the counter of Downalong Bakery.

‘You do know it’s your day off?’

‘What can I say? I just can’t keep away.’

He laughs. ‘So, what’ll it be?’

‘A rosemary focaccia, one cronut and a bag of the shortbread stars, please.’

‘Definitely day-off food,’ Matt says, jotting down a list of the prices on a brown paper bag before going to fetch my order.

When I hand over the money, he pauses before taking it, studying me in the unnervingly quiet way of his.

‘You could always enjoy your breakfast with a coffee in the back, if you’re up for it? ’